


Milk & Cookies

by CaseyF



Category: Once a Thief (TV)
Genre: M/M, Schmoop, novelty gifts, sweet-tooth required
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5235176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaseyF/pseuds/CaseyF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For those whose blood sugar can take syrupy sweetness - Mac and Vic and cookies, oh my!  A case gone wrong leads to more than an upset tummy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milk & Cookies

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2012. If someone wants to provide "better" Chinese than Google gave me, it's welcome. :)

Milk and Cookies

Okay, so here’s the set-up.  It’s Friday night, around nine.  We’ve been up for two days, working on an assignment, motivated by the Director’s tone of voice and that riding crop.

 

Vic and I are interviewing Mrs. Lada, an elderly lady who absolutely loves to make cookies.  Lives for cookies.  Breathes only cookie-scent.  Refers to everything in terms of cookies.  Lives in a sweet world where all can be solved by the application of the right cookie.

 

It occurs to me to ask if she has a “replacement apartment” cookie; my place went up in a big BOOM last night.  The guys who did it are not on my Christmas list for cookie baskets.

 

Vic, meanwhile, had turned into the Cookie Monster, sinking his teeth into at least two of every type of cookie Mrs. Lada put in front of us.  She made some delicious treats, I have to admit.  Myself, I tried one of everything, just to keep her happy.  Of course, that was before the glass of milk.  After that, well, I needed more cookies to finish that huge amount of milk, right?  Vic just kept on making up for two days of skipped meals, mumbling questions and spewing crumbs.  He dunked the molasses cookies, licked the jam of the fancy delicate biscuits, nibbled gingerly at the crisp gingersnaps, savoured the ladyfingers with the air of a connoisseur, and completely whuffed down the chocolate chip.

 

Got the picture?  Those of you not into the art that is the cookie may be asking yourselves “Yes, but why are these two bottomless pits of special operatives intruding on this sweet, elderly lady’s idyll of flour and flavour?”

 

First, easy with the alliteration.

 

Second, she may be sweet, but Mrs. Lada is also grandma to a couple of nasty villains, currently serving time thanks to some energy we expended putting them behind bars last year.

 

Third, making this many cookies isn’t cheap.  Was she running the boys’ business?  Were they running it from inside?

 

So ....  We were two “old college buddies” of the boys’, in town for the weekend.

 

We’d listened to Mrs. Lada go on about how proud she was of her “little angels” both earning MBAs, and her explanation that their current taxpayer-endorsed lifestyle was a big misunderstanding.  We’d invented a business we were supposedly running together, when she asked what *we* were doing with our MBAs.

 

In other words, we were getting nowhere.  Innocent, that’s what she was.  No obvious awareness of anything other than cookies.

 

I actually felt guilty bugging her kitchen table.

 

“So, either of you boys married?” she asks, bringing out the peanut-butter cookies.

 

Vic’s already inhaling them, so I say “No, ma’am,” and, just for the hell of it, give Vic the “But-I-Almost-Had-LiAnn” look.

 

He snarks a look and a laugh back, ‘cuz we both know that whole issue is so over, it’s just fun and put-downs to enjoy ourselves now.

 

Well, Mrs. Lada must be better at reading cookie recipes than looks, because out she comes with:  “Oh, isn’t that sweet? *That* explains why you’re still together so many years after college.  I should have guessed.  Two good-looking guys of a certain age ....  Say, did you know that TV program “Queer as Folk” was filmed right here in Toronto?  So exciting!  And so is the show - exciting.  My, my.”

 

And there she is fanning herself off, while I slap Vic on the back so he can huff up the mouth of cookie that he’s busy choking on.

 

The oven timer dings and Mrs. Lada pulls out a batch of  - ah, who knows? - then turns back to us, nodding approvingly at the hand I still have on Vic’s shoulder.

 

“I don’t know what to make of those lesbian characters,” she says, continuing her new role as TV critic.  “But I adore the scenes with Brian and Gus.  So sweet.”

And she sighs.

 

I’m not quite sure where she’s going with this, but it’s better than cookies.

 

“I think they wrote Mel and Lindsay into a corner with those first episodes,” I offer.  She nods. 

Vic makes eyes at me to shut up.  I run my hand up his neck, just to annoy him and thrill her.  “One yelling and the other sweeter than any good cookie-“ I look to her plates of biscuits - “should be.  But, Emmett, Ted, Justin - I like them.  Different from the British concept, but it goes.”  I flick a crumb off Vic’s lips with my thumb - he is so easy to tease - and give an evil leer while I say “What do you think, Mrs. Lada?  Wouldn’t Vic look divine on Brian’s black bed sheets?”

 

He scowls.  Then he smiles, turns his head and kisses my palm.  Way to go, Vic.  I think.  Undercover indeed.      

 

But he’s got more.

 

“I wouldn’t mind Brian on his bed, Mac.  But are you willing to share?”  I think he’s enjoying himself, too.  Looks like we’ve found another past-time besides pestering each other.

 

This could go on for a while.  I let my hand drift down his arm and Vic watches the movement, cookie in his other hand, forgotten in the role.

 

Our gazes hold - that’s not nearly as easy as the touching, but it’s part of the act.  I notice Vic notice me.  I try a bit of a “Brian” look and he smirks.  Wow.  Intriguing.  Then he shoves the cookie in his mouth.  Hmmm.  Cool under smoulder, our Vic.

 

A tightening of his fingers under my hand and then a brilliant smile at Mrs. Lada.  I think I’ve just been played.  And, me, Mac Ramsey, prince of cons, I don’t know what’s real.  Is he playing the role, on the job?  Or did he really see me in a Queer as Folk sort of way?  If I have a chance with him, will I go for it?  How do I feel?

 

And Vic’s back at work.

 

“So, Mrs. L., do you know if Rick and Lorenzo are still around?  We all used to hang out, y’know?  Maybe we could have a beer with them, even if Scott and Adam aren’t ... available.”

 

Scott and Adam, the grandsons, thugs.  Good bets they bombed my place.  But who gave the order?  Mrs. Lada?

 

Fifteen minutes later we called it quits.  Rick and Lorenzo she’d never heard of.  We left her cutting freezer cookies, each of us carrying a little gift plate of cookies and smelling of eau-de-biscuit.  In the elevator it was a bit much. 

 

We were on the twenty-seventh floor.  By twenty-five Vic had leaned against the wall, one foot propped flat, his knee bent.  I interrupted my staring into nothingness and bouncing on my toes to look at him when he did that “I wanna talk” snuffle/throat-clearing thing he does.

 

He was looking up at me through his eyelashes.  Bastard knows he’s sexy like that, right?  Is he still playing me?  What’s going on tonight?

 

“So, did you know the show was filmed here?”

 

Complete non-sequiteur.  I stare, baffled.  He smirks.

 

“Maybe we’ll go catch some of the taping of next season, eh, Mac?  Or maybe, maybe -“ he pushes off the wall and backs me up against the side of the elevator - “maybe the Director can get you a walk-on as one of Brian’s one-nighters.”

 

I glance away from Vic.  Vic, yes, Vic, practically in my face.  Twelfth floor.

 

He’s still there, intense, when I look back. 

What does he want me to do? 

Is he offering? 

Fooling to see if *I’m* interested?                                                                         

Or just an open-minded straight guy, into a wide array of TV programs?

 

We stare into each other’s gazes for what seems like a thousand floors, not - five.

 

Someone’s getting on at seven.

 

It’s a teenager, iPod blasting hip hop, pants belted below his ass.  He pushes a button, leans against the panel. 

 

Vic doesn’t move.  I nod at the kid and he nods back.

 

“Vic, move it,” I hiss.

 

And he does.  He plasters himself against me and then that voice is in my ear:  “This ok?”

 

The doors open at three.  The kid stops on his way out, turns to us.

 

“Fuck, man,” he says.  “You two trying to get me arrested for indecent exposure?  Damn.  Let me know if you want a third in your bed, huh?  Number seven-oh-four.”

 

Doors close.  Vic moves, stands next to me, our shoulders touching, back against the wall.  His face is red.  Embarrassed, Victor?

 

“Was that fun for you, Vic?” I may actually sound sarcastic.

 

He doesn’t look up.

 

We’re down.  In the truck, he sits there, fiddling with the key.

 

I don’t feel like saying anything.  I still don’t know what we’ve been doing to each other tonight.  I’m too beat to think about the case and I don’t have a home to go back to.

 

“It was too much fun for me, Mac,” he says and starts the truck.

 

Oh, great.  Yet another thing I don’t know how to interpret.  Is he upset he enjoyed it?  Which it? The idea of coming on to me?  The fact that he was just yanking my chain?

 

I really don’t feel like staying with Vic tonight.  I’ll spend all night trying to figure this all out, including what it is I want - a partner who can give as good as he gets in the teasing department - or a lover.

 

What I should be doing is forgetting all of this, sleeping on his couch as if nothing ever happened and getting up tomorrow to find and kick the asses of the hoodlums who totalled my apartment.

 

As if nothing ever happened.

_As if nothing ever happened._

 

The first step towards believing that is acting as if it’s true.  So, I turn on the radio, tune it to a dance mix and keep the beat with my butt bopping in the truck seat.  Flash Vic my shit-eating grin when he looks questioningly at me.

 

C’mon, Vic, c’mon.  This is only going to work if you play along.

 

“Utter crap,” he growls, scowling at the radio.

 

It’s done.

                                                                                                               

_____________

Vic was in the shower.  Didn’t matter that he was alone, he still felt Mac’s presence in his apartment.

 

That was always the problem.  He felt Mac.  Had from the moment they met.  And he wanted to make that feeling physical.  He teased Mac, baited him, annoyed him.

 

Every reaction gave Vic another vibe to feel.  He pushed Mac’s buttons and felt the currents himself.

                                                                                                               

When he was focused on the job, it was a hum.  Nothing obvious.

 

When there was no distraction, it was the most important thing he had.  He loved the feeling.  He sought it out.  It was a high.  And then tonight he’d almost ridden that high all the way.

 

If the kid hadn’t gotten on the elevator, would he have done it?  Ignored Mac’s confusion and gone for it?

 

Mac could probably hear the water running as he sat in the kitchen eating some Chinese wriggly stuff.

 

_If I jack off, will he hear me when I come?,_ Vic wondered. _Will he know?  Should I do it?  Or keep pretending nothing’s going on.  Does he know what he wants yet?  Should I push?  Do I want to know?_

_____________

“Listen to this, Vic,” Mac yelled into the bedroom as Vic was dressing.  “It’s a personal ad: Rick, enjoyed your BigMacAttack.  Now please put the V in Victory. - S&A.”

 

Vic came out, finger-combing his wet hair.  He grabbed the paper from Mac to see. 

 

‘It’s too easy,” he said looking up.  “Isn’t it?”

 

“Well, there’s that aspect of it, Vic,” Mac replied.  “Then there’s the idea that we’re sitting here in a place rigged to blow.  Care to take the discussion elsewhere?”

____________

Agency Bomb Squad people cleaned up Vic’s place within the hour.  Then, Vic and Mac went hunting for Rick and Lorenzo.  LiAnn was sent to visit Scott and Adam in jail, to see if her powers of persuasion could make them talk.

 

By 4am the guys returned to Vic’s, no wiser.  LiAnn had called earlier from a motel to say she’d see the prisoners tomorrow, once she’d gotten some sleep.                                         

 

Mac finished last night’s Chinese food, so tired he didn’t care it was cold.  After tonight’s foray, he wasn’t sure he still liked dance music.  Or even techno.  How many clubs had they been to?

 

Vic brought Mrs. Lada’s cookies and a glass of milk to the table.  “At least it was good for our egos,” he said, biting into what looked to be shortbread.

 

“Hmph,” Mac grunted.  Damn, these noodles were slippery.  “I ran into our elevator friend from last night.”

 

“What happened?” Vic was grinning.

 

“He grabbed my ass.”

 

Milk dribbled down his chin as Vic laughed around a swallow.  Mac reached over and thumbed it off, then pretended he hadn’t.

 

Vic forced his hand to reach for another cookie.  Forced a casual, “then what?”

 

Mac concentrated on his chopsticks.  “He asked if I was looking for him.  Did we want a threesome after all.  I told him you were the jealous type.”

 

“Well, that part is true.”  Vic stuffed in two lemon cookies.  Chomp chomp.  “Was his hand still on your ass?”

 

“Actually, he was grinding up behind me, he moved his hand - fuck, he was feeling me up, Vic, ok?”  And Mac wasn’t finding this too funny anymore; it was plain weird to be telling Vic this.

 

“Oh.”

                               

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah.  Sorry about that, Mac.”

 

“Why are you sorry?”

 

“Well, I shoulda had your back, y’know?”

 

“You would have had to be real close to keep this guy off me!”

 

Vic looked up fast.

 

It was a joke.  Mac was smiling.  Same old Mac.  Same old pattern.  Vic smiled back.  Let the topic slide.

 

“Tomorrow, we try garages.  That snitch at ....”  His voice trailed off in a grimace.

 

“Vic?  What?”

 

“I don’t feel so good.”

 

“Vic, you ate both plates of cookies.  What do you expect?”

 

“Mac, I really .....” He was pale, sweating and trembling.

 

“Vic!  Vic?  Shit!”  Mac was on his cell to the Director with one hand, the other arm wrapped around Vic, holding him up.

 

Ten minutes later Vic was on the sofa shivering in Mac’s arms.

 

All Mac could do was hold him and talk soft, hopeful nonsense.  His thoughts, feelings, prayers, everything he was, were focused on his partner.

 

“Mac.”

 

Mac leaned in closer to hear Vic.

 

“Why were you reading the personals?” Vic passed out as the Agency medics burst in the door.

_________

Part 3: When the Cookie Crumbles

 

LiAnn called every half hour.  Mac meditated in between, focusing every iota of psychic power and will on healing Vic from out here in the waiting room.

 

Four hours and no news.

 

He breathed deeper.  Went further into himself.  Vic was still alive. He would know otherwise.  His soul would sense it.  His heart would know.  His brain would know.  Hell, his dick would know.

 

His cell rang.

 

“Nothing yet, LiAnn,” he answered.

 

“It’s me,” the Director’s voice said in his ear.  “You still have a sparring partner, Mr. Ramsey.  Vic’s okay.  And we’ve got Mrs. Lada.  Apparently she uses a special plastic wrap for people asking for Scott and Adam.”

 

“He’s okay?”  That was all Mac took in.

 

“He’ll be a zombie for a few days, but he’s okay.  The milk cut the poison and the fact that he’s in good shape helped, too.  Now call LiAnn.”  And she was gone.

 

Mac relaxed into the chair.  Took a few breaths to see what breathing felt like when joy was running through him.  When his phone rang, he thrilled to be able to tell LiAnn that Vic was fine.  They did a little laugh-cry on the phone before Mac whispered softly in Chinese “I love you, LiAnn.”

 

“Oh, God, Mac,” she choked out, “Me, too.  From now on I promise to tell you at least every time we get shot at.”

 

“It’ll be our team motto,” he answered and hung up.

 

He got permission to sit with Vic and as his partner lay asleep, Mac held his hand and taught him how to say “I love you” in Chinese.

________

Vic opened his eyes.  Crap.  A hospital.  Yuck.  Beep beep beep - at least he was alive.  Wait, go back.  A hum.  And it wasn’t a machine.  Not in his head, either. 

 

Hmmmmmm ....  He turned his head.  Yep, there was Mac.

 

He looked good.  He looked tired.  He was looking at Vic.

 

“Am- am I okay?” Vic coughed on the words.

 

“Perfect,” Mac was smiling broadly.  He leaned over to get the glass of water on the night table.

 

“Weak as a baby, but perfect,” he said as he lifted Vic’s head a bit to drink.

 

Vic put his head down gladly.  He was dizzy.  The room was wrapping itself around him over and over.  There were Macs everywhere he looked.

 

He tired a deep breath.

Then a couple more.

Opened his eyes again.

One worried Mac.

Much better.

 

“Hi, Mac,” he said softly.

 

Mac looked confused.  “Uh, hi, Vic,” he answered.

 

Vic chuckled.  “I’m okay.  For a minute there I was surrounded by you, but now there’s just one pain in the neck here with me.”

 

“Been here for three days, this pain in the neck has.”  Mac stood up only to sit next to Vic on the bed.

 

“That long?  Talk about cookies not being good for you.”  He looked up questioningly.  “It was the cookie lady wasn’t it?  The bombs?  And the poison?  Bit of overkill.”

 

“Actually, it was the plastic wrap. The Director has Mrs. Lada’s butt in a sling, though.  Scott and Adam are being re-educated by Dobrinsky, and Rick and Lorenzo are locked up at the Agency visited only by Jackie.  I’m staying at your place.  LiAnn’s fine now that you’re okay.  And your truck is just the way you left it - I haven’t even touched the radio stations you preset.”

 

Vic closed his eyes and smiled.

 

It was quiet for a bit.

Had Vic gone back to sleep?

 

Mac got up to leave.  He’d come back later with some non-hospital food for Vic.

 

“Mac?”

 

He turned.  Vic’s eyes were still closed, but he was holding out his hand.  Mac took it and held it between his own.

 

“It’s funny, really,” Vic mumbled slowly.  “If they hadn’t blown up your place, you wouldn’t have been staying with me ... You wouldn’t have been there to save me .....”

 

“No, Vic.  If they hadn’t blown up my place, we’d never have seen Mrs. Lada and there wouldn’t have been any cookies for you ....” He stopped; Vic was asleep, his hand a deadweight in Mac’s.

 

Mac kissed Vic’s palm gently before placing his hand on the bed next to his hip.  He liked the feel against his lips.

__________

They could have gone on like that forever: three partners, three members of a team.  Three friends.

 

It was LiAnn who made the decision.  Time for a change.

_______________

Two days later, a skinnier Vic walked into his own apartment and flopped on to the sofa.

 

“I’m done in,” he announced.

 

Mac and LiAnn came through the door, bags of groceries in their arms.

 

“Patience, oh Cookie Monster,” Mac intoned in an Obi-Wan voice.  “Learn again to be as one with the force.  Recovery will take time.”

 

LiAnn turned from the kitchen to add: “Obi-Wan is right, Vic.  Go easy on yourself.  God knows Nurse Ramsey here won’t be much help.”

 

“That’s Nurse Kenobi,” came the retort.

 

“All I did was sit in the car while you shopped and then walk down the hall to my place,” Vic moaned.

 

“Some good authentic Chinese cuisine will fix you up, partner,” Mac lifted an eyebrow at the rude gesture Vic made as an answer.

 

“There’s no call for that, Mr. Mansfield!,” Mac said in his best Director’s voice.

 

“You need high heels and a bustier to do that one, Mac,” Vic smirked.

 

Mac sat and leaned back in the sofa, posing.  “Would you like me kinky, Vic?” he moued from under fluttering eyelashes.

                                                                                                                                                                               

“Only if you shaved your chest.” That was LiAnn, from the kitchen.

 

Vic seemed to be thankful she’d finished with the groceries.  He searched for something to say.

 

“Speaking of Chinese,” he started, “there’s something I have in my head ... Words.”

 

“Chinese words?” Mac asked.

 

“Hmm hmm,” Vic agreed.

 

“Mac, did you read him take out menus while he was unconscious?” LiAnn asked.

 

“Har de har har, LiAnn.”

 

It sounds like “wo eye knee,”” saidVic.

 

“Maybe "wo ai ni?" asked LiAnn.

 

Mac fiddled with a pillow.

 

“Mac?” He looked at LiAnn.  “Did you ....?”

 

“Yeah,” he said.  “I taught him that while he was asleep.”

 

“Taught me what?” Vic demanded.  “Swear words?  How to order eel?  What?”

 

Mac put the pillow aside, looked at him, trying to decide.

 

LiAnn leaned over and kissed Vic’s cheek.  When he looked at her, she said, “I love you too, Victor” and walked out.

 

Vic was tired, more than ready to sleep again.  But the “too” in LiAnn’s words was odd, wasn’t it?  “Too” meant someone else had said the words first.  Who?

 

He couldn’t recall having said he loved her just then.  Was he *that* tired?

 

Eyes closed, he thought.

_________________________

Should he thank her for doing it, Mac wondered?

 

Or maybe she hadn’t done anything.  Vic didn’t seem to get it. They could go on, business as usual. 

 

He looked at Vic, and he, too, leaned back and closed his eyes.

 

To be relieved or not to be relieved?

__________________________

Vic got it.  Didn’t take that long.

 

He got up, went to his desk and dug something out of the top drawer.  The plastic crinkled and Mac opened his eyes.

 

There was a fortune cookie in front of him.  Wrapped in plastic, held in Vic’s hand.  He looked up.

 

“I’ve … I’ve had this for a while now,” Vic’s voice was as soft as the look in his eyes.  “Please open it, Mac.”

 

Mac tore the plastic off with his teeth, as Vic sat back down.  He broke open the cookie and pulled out the fortune.

 

He stretched it out to read ‘I LOVE YOU, MAC.’

 

A few breaths later, he laid the paper on the table, looked at Vic, stood up, and walked out.

_______

Part 6: More Than One Recipe for Chocolate Chips Cookies

 

Vic didn’t bother to get up and lock the door.  He’d already risked everything once today.  So much for a quick recovery.  Now he had a shattered heart to go with everything else.

 

He got a glass of water and then lay down on his bed, only to hear the door of the apartment open again.

 

Then Mac was sitting on the bed, holding out a newspaper.

 

“It was in the truck,” he said, as if that made any sense.

 

Victor took the paper to find that someone had circled a classified- no, a personal- ad.

 

‘VIC,’ he read, ‘I’LL NEVER GIVE YOU COOKIES.  I LOVE YOU TOO MUCH.-MAC’

 

He lowered the newspaper, only now noticing there was no date on it, and that the other “ads” were gibberish text.  He reached for Mac’s hand on the comforter and laced their fingers together.  Both men stared at that point of contact for a few seconds.

 

“Say it for me in Chinese, Mac?”

 

When Mac looked, Vic was smiling up at him.

 

No, they wouldn’t go on the same old way.  He felt as fantastic as he had sitting in the hospital waiting room, knowing Vic was okay.  Good enough to grin.

 

“Kiss me in French, Vic, and then we’ll see.”

****

****

 

 


End file.
